On the Streets of Paris
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter four of On the Streets of Paris¸ the sequel to Brother. I actually did a little research with Google, so it seems a little more accurate! But I still don't know train/travel times…so ignore time in a way.
I hate doing travel scenes.
And as a note…I don't speak French. I can understand a little if I see it, but I can't speak it. 83
But I DID attempt it in two tiny places. For the English-speaking French people in the fic, I tried to have a certain slight difference with their English.
Enjoy.
Sherlock Holmes's game proved to be a better distraction than I had first thought, and very soon we landed at Calais. We purchased our tickets and waited for the next train to depart, which was thankfully only a short while. We rode on to Boulogne, where we stopped to have a quick luncheon of a few sandwiches, and continued on another train to Paris.
It was fairly late in the afternoon when we arrived, and we took time to find a hotel to stow our few packed possessions before setting off in a cab for the lady's home.
"I do hope she is not one of those witnesses who, after the distress, are impossible to draw information from." said Holmes as he fingered impatiently at the handle of his walking stick, watching the Parisian world go by from our vantage point in the cab.
"But she has lost her husband, Holmes," said I, "You must be sympathetic with her for that."
"Oh, no doubt," said Holmes, "But you speak as if he is dead."
"Don't you think he could be?"
"Of course he could be. But we do not know that for sure, and we mustn't be biased. Besides, I think it very unlikely."
Nothing else was said until we reached the house, where Holmes quickly paid the cabby and alighted with a spring.
"Come, Watson!" he called, and I got out and followed as quickly as I could.
Holmes went up to the door of the fancy Parisian city house and rang the bell, and the door soon was opened by a stern-faced servant.
"Oui?" he said, looking us over with an inquisitive eye.
"Mon nom est Sherlock Holmes," said my friend.
"Ah, very good, sir," said the servant, his voice thickly accented, "Madame Bourgeois is expecting you."
He opened the door wider and ushered us in, taking our hats and gloves and setting them upon the stand.
"Follow me, M. Holmes, Dr. Watson."
Holmes and I followed the austere servant to the drawing-room, where he told us to wait while he went to go fetch the lady of the house. As we waited, Holmes busied himself with examining the room thoroughly by sight, his keen grey eyes flitting searchingly across the lavishly decorated room.
"There's money in this case, if nothing else, eh, Holmes?" I said jestingly.
Holmes glared at me, but he knew I was only joking. A moment later the servant re-entered with the lady.
"Madame Bourgeois." he introduced, leaving the room after.
Madame Bourgeois was certainly not quite what I had expected. I had thought she would be one of those somewhat thickset, slightly older, haughty aristocratic types one so often saw, the kind that acted as if everything was quite beneath them—including sense, as Holmes might say.
She was instead a fine, young, delicate woman, obviously of good upbringing. A glint to her eye and set to her features told me that she was no fool.
"Madame Bourgeois," Holmes said, stepping up to her with that fantastic genteel, soothing air I have had occasion to mention before as he saw the distress on the lady's face.
"Oh, Monsieur Holmes, I am so very glad—no, relieved!—that you could come! When the police started saying that my husband ran away…!! Oh, Monsieur, they have nearly stopped looking for him entirely!"
"Madame, calm down, please. I shall find your husband, you may rest assured of that." he said, calming her further and ushering her down into a chair.
As usual, that strange, innate hypnotic charm he possessed soothed her immediately.
"Now," continued Holmes, seating himself. "Pray give me every detail you can, starting from the day he disappeared—earlier, even, if you can recall anything singular."
I pulled out my note-book and sat. I was very glad that Madame Bourgeois spoke good English, for I am afraid that even with shorthand I could not have kept up, for my own French was somewhat weak. Madame Bourgeois pulled out a silken handkerchief and daubed softly at her eyes before beginning her tale.
"Well, M. Holmes, that morning we were preparing to, as I have said, enjoy the spring weather. Everything seemed just as usual then. There wasn't a hint of wrong until lunch. It was just before lunch, really…when we were walking down the path to find a place to lay our blanket."
Holmes leaned forward in his seat, his finger-tips pressed together, face eager and sharp. "Then what?"
"As we were nearing the little brook we were going to sit by, I remember he had quickly turned and looked off at something intently. When I asked him what it was, he seemed troubled but said it was nothing—just his imagination. I thought nothing of it until much later, after he had disappeared and the police had already questioned me."
"Did you tell them of this point after you remembered it?"
"Yes, I thought it best to, but they did not think it was of any importance."
Holmes paused a moment, leaning back in his chair.
"Pray, continue. What happened next?"
"He seemed much better a little later--though, you know, a woman's intuition always tells her if something is amiss, and I felt something was not quite right. I ignored it, however, and we laid out our blanket and sat. I had put the basket to my right, and I turned to get the food from it, and when I faced my husband…! He was gone! I called for him, but received no answer! I called and called, and searched, and still found no trace! I heard no reply! That is when I went for help, M. Holmes."
"Give me the details of your surroundings—you have already mentioned the brook. What else?"
"Well, Monsieur, we were facing the brook. To our left some ten feet away were the woods, and to our right about the same distance away, perhaps a little farther, was the footpath, and a small, low wooden bridge that crossed the water. The weather was fair."
"These woods…did the police search them?"
"Yes, of course. That is the first place they looked."
"And the ground where you were sitting—was it soft at all from the brook?"
"Not to an extreme amount, but enough to leave a mark. But, I am ashamed to say that I had gathered several people with my shouting that helped me to look before the police came. When they did arrive, they could not make anything from the ground."
A scowl touched Holmes's face, quickly swept away as fast as it came.
"Did the police find any other traces? Anything in the woods, in the stream…?"
"No, nothing."
"What can you tell me of your husband?"
"My husband—Jacques Bourgeois—is the finest man God ever set upon the earth, M. Holmes. There isn't a false blood in him. He and I have known each other for years—our parents knew each other. He did not seem to show any true interest in me until I returned from boarding school, and since then he was very fond of me indeed. We were friends for a while, and courted openly for one year before our marriage. He had one rival in my love, M. Édouard Leclair, who was also very handsome and strong, but he did not possess the gentleness of Jacques."
I had expected Holmes to be growing tired under this romantic talk, but as I looked at him I saw that his face was more intensely focused than ever.
"Have you heard from M. Leclair in the past four years?" he asked.
"…No, M. Holmes, I cannot say that I have." Madame Bourgeois replied.
Holmes looked deeply thoughtful for a moment.
"How intense was the rivalry between M. Bourgeois and Leclair?"
Madame Bourgeois' fine brow creased lightly in thought.
"My husband was never bitter, but did strive very hard for my hand. M. Leclair tried more than once to turn me against him, but was never overly harsh in his ways to Jacques—not more than one might expect from a love rival. M. Leclair had a taste for trouble, however. He had a wild streak in him."
"That is one of the reasons you chose M. Bourgeois?"
"Yes. And I have never regretted my decision, so fine a man he was. Oh, M. Holmes, I am lost without him! You must see what has become of him!"
"Has M. Bourgeois ever mentioned anything to you that seemed strange? Anything at all?"
"No, M. Holmes. Nothing that I can think of."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. …At least, I think I am."
"Please, Madame, I cannot help your husband unless I have every particular. You must tell me everything you can, even if you are not certain it bears anything upon the case."
Madame Bourgeois hesitated.
"A few weeks ago, my husband returned home very late. He had been at his club, but he always returned at least by ten. That night, he was not home until three o'clock in the morning. I had waited up for him, for I was much worried, and when he came in I swear, M. Holmes, that he was as blanched as a spirit and covered in such a sweat as I have never seen! Oh, it frightened me nearly to death. I asked him what the matter was, and why he was so late. His reply was that he only got caught up in a game of cards with some new fellows at the club, and that on his way home he thought he was followed by some strange man and it had frightened him a little."
"That is the reason he gave?"
"Yes."
"What did you think of it at the time?"
"…I thought it was rather strange. But I had no reason to doubt him. He had always been very truthful with me. But that he should be so frightened and unnerved by a simple stranger following him was too unlike him for me to accept. Jacques is too brave a man, M. Holmes. He was unnerved for the entire week afterward. But since then, he has been just as he was before."
"How long ago was this, exactly?"
"I...cannot say for certain. I believe it was last month."
Holmes looked very thoughtful, his brows drawn together. He stood suddenly.
"Merci, Madame Bourgeois. You have been most helpful. If I need anything else, I shall call again." he said. He took one of his visitor cards, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to her. "We are staying at this hotel, if you need to send us a message."
"Thank you, M. Holmes," said Madame Bourgeois. "I shall tell you anything I can think of, as long as it assists you in finding Jacques."
"Good day, Madame."
Holmes and I departed, stepping out onto the street and hailing a cab to return to the hotel.
"She was a decent witness, Watson, but she did not realise the full extent of the information she held." Holmes said as we were on our way.
"Have you any clue as to the solution yet?" I asked.
"I am confident that I have caught the first threads that will lead me to the end." He said, alighting from the cab as it reached the hotel.
I followed him inside where he stopped at the front desk to write a few telegrams.
"Who are those to?" I asked.
"To Mycroft," Holmes replied. "He may have some sort of very important news in my absence, and I cannot have him sending messages to our empty rooms at Baker Street. I always make sure he knows where I am when I am away from London for very long. The other telegram..." He paused as he scribbled something, "...is to get a little piece of information. I do not have my indexes with me here, so I must have Mycroft look something up for me."
"Of course."
"Come, Watson," Holmes said as he passed the telegram to the man behind the desk. "I must smoke for a little while, and wait for a reply."
KS: Thanks for reading! We're getting past the annoying setup, little by little! XD
I seem to be getting back into the writing groove, and I do believe I have KCS to thank for it, because I now (at KCS's suggestion) have a Sherlock Holmes section forum, and a topic there specifically for this story, so go check it out!
And please, don't forget to review!